


Woven In Stars and Silver Thread (The Red of Your Lips and The Sound of Your Heart)

by ohmygoshwhatascream



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Whump, depictions of blood, lots of metaphors about death, the obligatory 'Jaskier gets hurt and Geralt realises he's in love with him' fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-25
Updated: 2020-01-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:40:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22404289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohmygoshwhatascream/pseuds/ohmygoshwhatascream
Summary: Lips stained red, spattered with blood, Jaskier's breaths are slow and ragged.Death was not something that could be avoided forever, but this time he had gotten far too close.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 30
Kudos: 791
Collections: GERALT AND JASKIER ARE FUCKING GAY





	Woven In Stars and Silver Thread (The Red of Your Lips and The Sound of Your Heart)

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea what I'm doing with these two and I hope they're somewhat in character.

The scent of blood is acidic.  _ Vile,  _ unnatural and just  _ not right. _ It is not the rotting stench of monster blood, it is not the scent of savagery and villainy, of untamed beast and bloodthirsty demon. 

The blood is human, fresh and raw and cloying. It is all Geralt can smell.

Coppery, metallic. Cold and stale, like blocks of ice. It smells of stuttering breaths and life-absence skin. It smells of empty bodies and limp limbs. It smells of the coldness of abandonment, the shadows of misery. But it's warm on his fingers, pulsing against his hands. It's warm and sticky and  _ alive  _ in his hands. The body it comes from is living, the body it comes from is not yet gone.

_ There is hope. _

Jaskier is slumped next to him, skin pale and lips bruised with purple and blue. It is the coldness of shadow seeping in, the winter replacing the spring. His eyes are shadowed with sleepless nights, sockets dug deep like a grave without a coffin. The cornflower blues of his eyes are hidden by lowered lashes, glinting silver with the unshed tears woven betwixt them. Like stars spun in the night sky. They begin to trickle down his cheeks like shooting stars, leaving trails tracked between the blood and grime.

He's moaning something incoherent. Still talking, always making noise. Even when he's on death's door, standing on the precipice with the void answering below, he still won't just be quiet.

But, even if his words are slurred and nonsensical, it is better than the alternative of silence. When he whispers, groaning out melodies between ragged breaths, Geralt is reminded that he is  _ alive.  _ That, although it looks bad, he will heal. (He has to. Geralt won't let him slip away. Not this time. Not ever)

There's a tune to his words; the same words that get caught in his throat, blood choking and lips painted with streaks of crimson. Like red tulips, red carnations. The flowers that Jaskier always picks, the ones he tries to weave into Roach's hair and, when that fails, he tries his luck with Geralt. (Geralt has taken to the flowers in his hair. It gets him some strange looks, but Jaskier's smile when does not take them out is worth the scorn of unnamed strangers) It's a sorrowful kind of tune, a lonely ballad. He can't quite understand each syllable, he can't find coherence in the broken sentences, but Geralt can sense its meaning. 

It's not a happy song. Not a cheerful jig belted out in a pub, with patrons cheering and stamping and clinking their pints of ail. Nor is it the quiet whispers of love and beauty and nature. This is isolation, loneliness. It speaks of the lingering shadows on spring mornings, the rotting leaves on forest floor. It is about the end of things, changes that can never be undone. Inevitability. The realities of life, the realities of being a human in a world fraught with danger. 

_ Death.  _

But even then, the tune soon comes to an end. All that is left is ragged gasps, breaths that rattle against his ribcage and the sound of air whistled through clenched teeth. Jaskier chokes down a sob, blood spluttering from his mouth. A wet, splattering sound. It drips down his chin, trickling down his neck and onto his lap. It mingles with the thicker blood. The one that is dark brown, crusted where it has begun to dry. The wound is closing, slowly. The blood is clotting but it is still not enough.

Geralt applies more pressure to the wound, large hands desperately trying to ebb the flow of blood. 

The injury isn't that deep. Not life-threatening. Jaskier  _ will  _ be okay. But at the time… when he'd seen the steely glint of that monster's claws, luminescent in the moonlight, reach towards Jaskier… when he'd heard the yell, the sound of sliced flesh and the scent of copper, seen the blood… He'd lost it, instinct driving him forwards as he'd made quick work of the beat and held a swaying Jaskier in his arms, bringing him down to the ground before he collapsed. It had been too close, too real. Had Jaskier reacted only a few seconds slower, his intestines would have been ripped out and he would have died before he could even think to scream. 

Jaskier had lost so much blood. _Too_ _much_.

Humans were fragile creatures. Their lives fleeting touches upon the earth, their crafts strange and their customs more so. They lived their short lives, filled it with  _ things  _ and  _ people _ , collecting their own items of happiness, passing their time with meaningless tasks, avoiding the realities of their own mortality.

Geralt had known this. Has always known this. Humans are weak, and Jaskier is human.

It was always a risk, allowing him to tag along. He had  _ known  _ this. A human, little to no fighting skills to their name. A human who had fire, spirit behind his eyes and laughter in his voice. Someone who found beauty where things had been lost, who could see the light behind the clouds and the sun beneath the shadows. Jaskier had been _hope_ , something  _ real  _ and tangible that he had grown far too attached to.

Annoying, irritating. Strumming on his lute when he should be quiet, always asking too many questions. Always curious, never wanting to be left behind. 

He'd been an incessant pain in Geralt's side for so long now. He'd lost track of the amount of times he'd had to save Jakier from the very chaos and misfortune he seemed to attract. Furious husbands with shortswords brandished, pointed at a half-naked Jaskier with unbuttoned trousers and hickeys on his neck. Jaskier with his crystal eyes and sunlight smile, with his emotions always worn upon his sleeve.

Yet there had always been something about him that had made Geralt reluctant to send him on his way. He  _ was _ a nuisance. His songs grew grating, his lyrics full of half-truths and mindless fantasy. He shifted about in his sleep too much, legs kicking and tossing and turning. His cheap cologne smelled like shit and he wasted all his money on clothes that would inevitably get ruined and he had a bizarre penchant for sweets and all things sugary, Yet, despite all that, he carried an unmistakable cheer about him, an irritating glow of light surrounding him as he would smile and sing to all those who would listen.

There was a charisma about him, something that drew Geralt in like a moth to a flame. He had always known that, eventually, he would get too close to that fire. Wings set alight, shrivelled and burnt and the flame snuffed out into darkness. That was the reality of closeness, the reality of immortal life next to those who would soon be gone.

But Jaskier had drawn him in. He was  _ different  _ from others. No scent of fear clung to him when he looked up at Geralt. No hatred, no mistrust. 

Naive, Geralt had once thought. And he was right. Jaskier  _ was  _ naive,  _ is  _ naive. He's a hopeless romantic, someone with a soft soul and gentle heart. He's not made for the cruelness of the world. He's not made for this life of fighting and danger. He was made for wandering in the  _ nice  _ places. Amongst green fields and sunlit forests. He was made for the moss on trees and the call of a sparrow. He was made for the  _ beautiful _ of the world. That was where he belonged.

And yet he had stuck around. 

Against his better judgement, Geralt had let him in. Broken down those walls he'd built around himself, opened the gates and lowered the drawbridge. They'd become  _ friends,  _ a word that Geralt had never used before, for there had never been a need. 

Jaskier had found his beauty somewhere else. He had found it in quiet evenings, hands warmed over a sparking fire and long fingers plucking at his lute, weaving tales of adventure and excitement into the bleakness of starless nights. He had found beauty in words left unsaid, in an unlikely companionship that spanned more than just friendship. He had found his beauty and had stuck by it and Geralt had clung to him like a lifeline. He was something real and raw and gorgeous in a world where he was doomed to only see the evil. He was  _ good,  _ and he reminded Geralt that there were things that needed saving. He reminded Geralt that distance did not solve anything, that life wasn't just about giving and giving, but instead you could take with you the things that brought you happiness. 

But now that person, the one person he trusted more than anything else, his  _ friend,  _ his closest companion, was slumped on the floor with blood on his lips and a gash across his stomach. 

The bleeding had lessened by now, the blood clotting and hardening around the wound. Soon it will stop completely and Jaskier will be okay. It'll need cleaning, lest it gets infected, but Geralt does not want to move him. Not yet. Nor does he want to abandon his side.

_ It had been too close.  _

Some colour is back in Jaskier's cheeks. He's still pale. Far too pale, but there's a bit of life returned to him, like the first bundle of snowdrops in early spring. Pale and gentle and delicate, but  _ something  _ after the bleakness of midwinter. Geralt has never felt so clearly the pain of loss. He knows that this is why he had kept his distance, closed himself off from the rest of the world, but he can't let go of his attachment, not now. 

Part of him wonders if this is all worth it. If, even though it will eventually end in sadness, it will be worth it for those moments of happiness. 

"You know, I don't regret any of it," Jaskier whispers out, voice weak and wavering. He splutters and Geralt almost tells him to shut up, but Jaskier tilts his eyes upwards, blue trained on gold. His eyelashes flutter, casting butterfly's shadows onto his cheeks. Geralt's breath stills in his chest. "I could have had a quiet life, probably. Played music until the end of my days. I could have bought a nice house, maybe I'd have lived by the sea. That would have been nice…" He trails off, an expression that Geralt has never seen before shadowing his face. "But, even if I could do all that… it wouldn't be the same without you." He smiles wanly but it still glows brilliant gold. His teeth are spattered with red and his lips are cracked and bruised.  _ He's beautiful _ , Geralt realises and curses himself for not realizing it sooner. "Don't mope around when I'm gone." Huffing through his nose in what might have been a laugh, his eyes turn sombre. "It… it was an honour to be your friend, Geralt of Rivia."

There's a pause, a brief period of silence. Geralt watches him, a smile twitching at his lips. 

"Are you not going to say anything? I just poured my heart out for you! I'm going to  _ die,  _ Geralt. I know you're not much of a talker but  _ seriously?  _ I don't know what I was expecting but-"

"You're not going to die." Geralt interrupts. "Wound's not deep enough. The bleeding's stopped. You'll be fine."  _ I was so worried about you. I thought you were- _

Amidst all the pain, there is a flush that rises to Jaskier's cheeks. Soft pink, dusted like sun-risen clouds across morning sky. There's a knowing glint in his eyes, however. They both know how close it was and, as Jaskier's thoughts become more coherent, he can see the remnants of fear lingering in Geralt's eyes. Jaskier had lain his feelings out for all to see, spoken of them with unabashed ease and said them with softness in his eyes and fondness in his voice.

Geralt can't do the same and they both know this. He can't just… talk about things. He is no poet, not like Jaskier who can weave out diamonds and silk with his silver tongue, who can paint his emotions in words of music and passion and beauty. But what goes unsaid is not lost. Jaskier understands. He always does.

"Need to wash it."  _ I couldn't bear to be here without you. _ Jaskier's brows furrow. "Infection." He adds on.

"Oh. Yes, I suppose. There was a stream somewhere, wasn't there? I don't know if I can get up though…"

Geralt places his palm against Jaskier's chest, pushing him backwards as he struggles to stand. He holds it there for a moment, feeling the rise and fall of it with each breath, coming more easily now.  _ comforting.  _

"I won't be long."  _ I'll come back to you, I always will. _

Jaskier snorts. "Like I'll be going anywhere."

As Geralt moves to stand, he feels a tightening in his chest. He looks down at Jaskier. Long, slender limbs. Graceful, beautiful, even when he's coated in blood and dirt and grime. Once he's fit to move, they'll go to an inn. Take some time off. Geralt thinks of the coast, the expanse of blue sea. Maybe they'll go there together. Jaskier would like that. So would he.

The fatigue is beginning to catch up with Jaskier now, adrenaline rubbing off. Geralt watches as his eyes begin to droop, chin lowering to his chest. 

Without thinking, he leans forward, lips brushing against Jaskier's forehead.  _ I love you,  _ it says.  _ I love you and I want you to know that. _

The smile that blooms across Jaskier's face is brighter than all the spring flowers in bloom. "Took you long enough." Jaskier murmurs, hand reaching up to grab at Geralt's own, squeezing softly before it falls as his eyes close. "Love you too."

**Author's Note:**

> i had to write the whump, like, this was my destiny.


End file.
